


Captain Blood

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Kid Fic, Mycroft-centric, Pirates, Post Reichenbach, Sibling Love, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:51:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>A fill for LJ's Sherlock's Summer Vacay fest. The prompt, from mahmfic was: </em><br/>Mummy, wee!Sherlock, and wee!Mycroft in the park playing pirates. Took slight literary license with this one. Mycroft is not terribly wee, and they're in the back garden, not a park.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Captain Blood

Mycroft slid a plain white envelope from the silver tray before waving the butler away. He opened the envelope slowly, refusing to allow his hands to tremble, though he was sure he recognized the expensive Bohemian paper that was such a favorite of his brother.

His _deceased_ brother.

Mycroft held the muscles of his face--his jaw, his lips, even his eyes--motionless, expressionless as he read. Then he leaned back into the deep leather chair, thankful for the quiet, and relative solitude, of the Club. A crystal clear childhood memory--as clear as if it had happened yesterday-- replaced the grief and shadows of the past few days.

* * *

"And that, my friend, ends a partnership that never should have begun!" Sherlock's lips curled into a triumphant sneer as he dealt the final mortal blow and gathered himself up to his full three feet, ten inches in height.

Mycroft closed his eyes and fell backward with a less-than-graceful thud. His own balsa-wood sword rolled from his twitching hand. He allowed the murky pond water to wash over his face, trying hard not to sputter and choke as he'd done in rehearsal earlier that day. He didn't care whether stupid Sherlock was annoyed with him, of course. But he was determined that Mummy and Father would have no cause to scold him for ruining Sherlock's grand back-garden staging of _Captain Blood: Pirate Hero of the Caribbean._

Mycroft still remembered the sting of his parents' and grandparents' disappointed frowns when he'd so adamantly refused to don the crocodile costume for Sherlock's _Peter Pan_ last year. But for heaven's sake--he was thirteen-years-old, practically a man-- and didn't see why he had to join in these silly pirate games with his brother anymore. He ought to be allowed his own fun, oughtn't he? Maybe he'd like to pretend to be James Bond or The Doctor for a change. _But no_. Precious Sherlock _always_ got his way, didn't he?

This year, Mummy had taken Mycroft aside when he'd come home from boarding school, fed him two pieces of his favorite buttery yellow cake and explained, "You're the eldest, Mycroft. You have all the privileges and responsibilities of the first-born." Mycroft had barely managed not to roll his eyes or snort with laughter. Privileges, indeed. The privilege of having his little brother use his arse for target practice with a toy bow and arrow? The privilege of listening to ladies coo about little Sherl's pretty curls and beautiful eyes every time they walked to the shops together? Mycroft took a third piece of cake and continued to feign interest in his mother's words.

"You know Sherlock's _sensitive_ , dear. And liable to throw a dreadful tantrum and not eat for weeks if you refuse to join in his theatre troupe this time. Be a good boy and help us keep him happy, won't you? We depend on you, Mycroft. Sherlock depends on you."

 _Hmpf. Of course_. Of course Mycroft would spend his summer holiday running 'round after Sherlock, building pirate ships; rigging masts out of old bedsheets with Lucy, the housemaid; apologizing to the neighbors for the cannon that exploded too loudly, begging forgiveness for the powder burns on Mrs. Sutherland's rose bushes. Sherlock couldn't be bothered to apologize--he was the director, writer, and star! Mummy was enthusiastically indulging Sherlock's theatrical passion (and her own) by funding these productions and bribing enough local boys and girls to make up a decent cast of extras. Bribing them all with chocolate biscuits, licorice, and tea. So, having accepted the bribes himself, Mycroft really had no way out of the annual humiliation.

At least this time Mycroft had a speaking part--a merciless and mercenary French pirate, no less--and he wasn't just bound and gagged and held hostage in exchange for Spanish treasure as he'd been in two previous epics. Mummy had got Sherlock a video of  _Captain Blood_ for his birthday, so this summer's adaptation of that classic allowed Sherlock pained "I'm-so-misunderstood" looks, dramatic speeches, and all the swordplay he could desire. Mycroft got to trot out a French accent and got to make the swords they used for their fight to the death--Mycroft's death, _of course_.

All in all, Mycroft really didn't mind building sets, memorizing lines, and making amends every time Sherlock brought tears to the eyes of one of the village children who'd been press-ganged into the production with him. What he minded quite a bit was lying in the mud, fake blood oozing beneath his brocade cumberbund, with who-knows-what-creepy-crawlies making their way under his collar or into his trousers. _Egad_.

As he lay there listening to the applause, he opened one eye to see his brother beam and flourish his sword as he took another bow. Feeling _something_ _slimey_ swimming into his ear, Mycroft comforted himself with one thought. Soon--only a few more summers--and Sherlock would be old enough to entertain himself. He wouldn't need Mycroft to look after him anymore. Wouldn't need Mycroft to slip him a few pounds every month so he could waste it on grisly detective stories Mummy didn't approve of. Wouldn't need Mycroft to smooth hurt feelings when Sherlock blabbed awful truths to Aunt Tess or Cousin Horace about their spouses. Wouldn't need Mycroft as his nodding, smiling audience when he demonstrated the new magic tricks he'd learned. And wouldn't need Mycroft to save the rabbit from suffocating in a trunk in the attic when Sherlock got bored with magic tricks.

Mycroft did worry sometimes about what was going to become of his weird, brilliant, irritating little brother. But as he gathered up a handful of biscuits and headed into the house to shower off the greasepaint and muck, he saw his parents laughing and squeezing their baby boy tight, and thought he really needn't worry. Sherlock always made sure his performances had happy endings.

 

* * *

Mycroft opened the note and read it again, this time allowing himself a smile. He should have known better than to doubt his little brother. He could imagine Sherlock beaming and taking a bow, right now.

 

_Levasseur--_

_Off to explore stranger isles for awhile._

_Must restore my tainted reputation,_

_and force a few scoundrels to walk the plank._

_Mind the crew for me.  
_

_\--Capt. Blood._

**Author's Note:**

> _Errol Flynn and Basil Rathbone (another Sherlock!)[duel to the death in Captain Blood (1935).](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uog-mJYyloQ)_


End file.
